


You're Being Fucking Deceived

by TrebleTwenty



Category: Transformers: Cyberverse
Genre: Copious profanity, Idiots in Love, M/M, Macaddams, Season 1, Sloppy Makeouts, Yearning, and then everyone clapped, me being in love w megatron made this pov very easy to inhabit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22598713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrebleTwenty/pseuds/TrebleTwenty
Summary: The REAL reason Orion has to help Megatron write his speeches is that the mech just won't stop fucking swearing.Written for the sadly cancelled Megop Zine vol. 2.
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Comments: 26
Kudos: 262





	You're Being Fucking Deceived

**Author's Note:**

> God... I wrote this a year ago.   
> Still slaps tho. 
> 
> V sad abt Megop vol. 2 not going ahead but at least I've got the go-ahead to post this now. 
> 
> I usually tend to go for the robot swears when I write but unfortunately we as a fandom haven't come up with anything that can properly convey the sheer vitriol contained in 'the senate are cunts'. We should fix this??

They were all used to meeting in Maccadam’s, now. The proprietor greeted their group with a smile and a wave and an astonishing ability to remember everyone’s regular order, and was happy to turn a blind eye to the seditious activities that were happening in the corner of his bar (until he couldn’t help himself any longer and gave Megatron the  _ perfect  _ ending to that speech he’d been trying to write). It wasn’t like there were many other customers this early in the day - only a courier model sitting at the bar that Bumblebee had greeted with a wave as they arrived and a couple of older miner frames hunched over two cubes in the back, who’d both nodded very seriously and respectfully to Megatron as he came in. 

It was much better than how it’d been before, Orion thought. They’d been meeting under noisy overpasses or cramming themselves into abandoned warehouses for a long time before Wheeljack had told them how Old Maccadam had expressed an interest in meeting ‘those Decepticon fellows’, and they’d seized on the opportunity gratefully. Now, they came in during the off hours to nurse a cube (or several) together in warmth and good company, and as Wheeljack and Shockwave tinkered with another project on one table, and Slipstream and Starscream cheerfully harassed each other over another, Orion was free to coax Megatron through the laborious process of writing another speech. Not to say his friend wasn’t an incredibly talented and eloquent writer in his own right. No, he just showed a bull-headed determination to completely ignore the needs and cares of the audience he was writing for.

“Megatron,” Orion said patiently, pinching the bridge of his nose. His battlemask was retracted so he could drink, which he did at that moment, because he was very tired. “You can’t call the senate cunts.”

“Well, they  _ are  _ cunts,” Megatron said.

“Megatron.”

“Orion, you can’t tell me you don’t think the senate are cunts.” Megatron determinedly ignored his disapproving look.

“If I didn’t think the senate were cunts, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” Orion sighed. He was used to this.

“Well, it doesn’t fucking sound like you think the senate are cunts,” Megatron said petulantly.

“Why do you have to do this?” Orion asked. 

“Do what?” 

“This! Your-” Orion gestured helplessly to Megatron’s scowling face. “-everything! It’s like this every time! Why do you even ask me to help if you’re going to ignore everything I say?”

Megatron looked vaguely guilty at that.

“Look,” Orion pointed out. “You can’t ask me to help you appeal to the middle classes and then discount my advice just because I’m telling you to stop swearing.”

“The middle classes don’t have any fucking taste,” Megatron grumbled. He tossed his head back and finished off his drink. Gasping and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he glared down at the draft of the speech again. 

“Can I at least call them bastards?” He asked after a moment.

“You absolutely cannot,” Orion said.

“You’re no fun today.” Megatron pouted. “After this is done, you’re having at least  _ five _ drinks this time.” He sent a sly and insinuating look in Orion’s direction.

“Megatron, no,” Orion said, taking another sip himself to try and hide his flushing cheeks, resolutely ignoring the thrilled flicker of his spark at that look. “I’m not getting on the table again. No matter how much I drink.”

“Are you sure?” Megatron cajoled. “I want another image capture of you dancing, Orion. I like to bring the other one up on my HUD and look at it when I’m sad. Don’t you want me to be happy, Orion?”

“Just- just finish your damn speech,” Orion choked out from behind his drink. His spark whirled and pounded within his chassis, like it was ready to throw his chest-plate open and climb right out of him and tell the whole room exactly who it belonged to. 

Megatron grinned at his victory, and then, blessedly, turned back to his draft document with a little furrow of concentration on his brow. Orion turned away to watch Wheeljack fiddling with a delicate-looking hinge joint that looked like it might one day be for some drone’s arm, just to avoid thinking about how much he wanted to kiss it. 

Megatron… he imagined that without that frisson of desire that ran up his back every time the mech went on one of his tirades against the state, the government, and the injustice of it all, he might be quite an irritating friend to have - in that he never fucking shut up - but as his optics spat fire and his (very intriguing) mouth spat promises of retribution, Orion never wanted him to stop. His passion was  _ captivating _ , in a way that he’d never experienced with anyone else. 

He’d first realised just how infatuated he was during a rally a couple of months ago. Megatron had been doing what he did best, and Orion had been admiring the power of his rhetoric, and the ease with which he commanded a crowd. He’d been at least a little bit in love with him from the start, naturally, but everyone was. That was how a mech like Megatron worked; you fell in love with him every time he opened his mouth to speak. That was why they were all there, in a way. The crowd had hollered in ferocious agreement at some triumphant turn of phrase that Orion couldn’t even begin to recall, because as Megatron roared ‘the emancipation of the fucking masses is everything they’re afraid of’, Orion had been almost overcome by just how magnificent he looked there in that moment, confident and thriving as everyone there hung on his every word, and his spark had spun giddily in his chest, and hadn’t stopped since. 

Starscream had let slip, once, as they both hung back and let Megatron greet his listeners, that Megatron wrote poetry. Orion didn’t think Starscream had meant it kindly. Still, he couldn’t get the idea out of his head. He’d stared at him all through his next speech, trying to imagine this mech sitting down and doing something as  _ reserved _ as writing poetry. It would have to be angry, of course, his poetry, because Megatron himself was angry. He’d been born angry and he’d go to his grave angry on behalf of the whole world, but Orion couldn’t imagine poetry being that angry. He knew about delicate love poetry, and proud patriotism, but he wondered what place there was on the shelves of the Iacon Hall of Records for Megatron’s anger. 

He desperately wanted to read it, almost more than he wanted Megatron’s clever mouth on him. He couldn’t imagine any way more intimate to know him than poetry, but he didn’t know how to ask without letting him know that Starscream had told him. He didn’t know how Starscream had known, but he clearly wasn’t supposed to. Could Megatron be ashamed, he wondered, watching the mech as he frowned down at the draft of his speech, imaging him frowning down at some private datapad in his quarters underneath the arena in the dead of night. Megatron should never be ashamed of his passion, he thought decidedly. It would be a tragedy. 

“Orion!” Megatron barked, and Orion nearly threw his empty cube across the room. Megatron glared at him. “You weren’t paying any attention! What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing!” Orion exclaimed, in a voice that was a little too high. “Nothing at all!”

“Hmmm,” Megatron hummed suspiciously. “Anyway, I’ve finished this next section. Look at it.” He thrust the datapad under Orion’s nose. Orion took it gingerly. 

“And this contains no profanity?”

“None,” Megatron announced proudly. “I didn’t even say bitch.”

“I’m impressed,” Orion said, already turning his attention to the pad. Oh, now this was  _ excellent _ . Megatron might finally be outgrowing the need for his supervision. He could already hear him saying this, could taste the applause in the back of his throat. It read like it always did; a barely restrained ferocity, like the words were ready to leap right from the page, and-

“Megatron!” Orion snapped. “‘Bastards’ counts as profanity!”

Megatron cackled. Orion held his head in his hands.

“Um, is this a bad time?” Bumblebee asked hesitantly. “I brought more drinks.” He held two cubes aloft, overfull and sloshing. 

“It’s never a bad time for fuel,” Megatron said, reaching for one. Orion hit him, and he winced, halting.

“You don’t deserve one,” Orion said grumpily. 

“Oh, I don’t deserve one, do I?” Megatron took his hand back and used it to wave his datapad in Orion’s face. “Well, tell  _ that  _ to my-”

Smiling to himself at the by now familiar scene, Bumblebee put both drinks down on the table and left them to their bickering. 

“- _ and _ ,” Megatron was saying, “if the middle classes are too fucking sensitive for the word bastard then I can’t imagine I could have much in fucking common with them in the first place.”

“It’s not like I enjoy stifling your creativity!” Orion protested. “I just know what these people are like.”

“The politics of fucking respectability.” Megatron nodded. “Another symptom of the chokehold rampant classism has on us all.”

“I-” Orion swallowed “-love it when you’re out there, railing against injustice. It’s incredible to witness. But people who it doesn’t directly affect are going to need it gently pointed out to them.”

“Oh, you love it do you?” Megatron purred. Orion just about managed to choke back an embarrassing noise and blushed, averting his eyes.

“Drink your fuel,” he squeaked.

“I’m just saying,” Megatron said as he dragged his cube closer to him across the table, “you never needed anything gently pointing out to  _ you _ .” He took a deep, long gulp and Orion’s processor utterly emptied itself of anything he was planning to say as he watched Megatron’s throat work. He was clearly a lost cause. He nearly whined out loud as Megatron lowered the cube and gasped, refreshed. There was a little drop of liquid pearling on his bottom lip, and if Orion tried to tear his eyes away he thought he might literally die.

“You, uh.” Orion gestured vaguely to the area around his mouth. 

“Oh!” Megatron licked his lips, which made Orion’s spark swoop down and settle somewhere behind his fuel tank. The little trace of engex was still there. 

“That’s good,” Megatron mused. “I’ll have to ask Bee what it is.”

Orion felt like he was having an out of body experience. As Megatron begrudgingly deleted the offending ‘bastards’ from his draft, Orion’s optics remained glued to that little fuel droplet, and the urge to take Megatron’s head in his hands and just lick it off rose in him like a wave, almost burning him, and he felt like he might need to physically grip the edges of the table to stop himself. 

“No, it’s still there,” he said suddenly, surprising both of them.

“Hmm?” Megatron looked up. Orion stared at him, with his data pad clutched loosely in one hand, a quizzical expression on his face and that damned little trace of fuel on his bottom lip, and was overcome with a rush of affection and desire so strong that he couldn’t resist it any longer. He leant across the table, slid a hand around the back of Megatron’s neck, and drew him upwards to kiss him as thoroughly as he dared.

Megatron made a little noise of surprise against his mouth and Orion drank it in, fitting their mouths together like he’d been imagining for so long, moving his lips against Megatron’s slowly and deeply, tasting the fuel Megatron had just drunk (he was right - it was good) and imagining he could even taste some of the words that came out of this wonderful mouth that had captivated him so thoroughly. Megatron was so warm against him, his mouth and neck hot, and Orion longed to press himself up against him, taste his tongue and find out if it was as clever here as it was when he spoke, but he had to stop. The bar had gone quiet, and he had to stop. 

With a quiet groan of longing, he withdrew, running his tongue along Megatron’s bottom lip to catch the stray drop of fuel and was gratified to feel Megatron shiver, and then, reluctantly, he let go. 

Megatron was staring at him, his still-wet mouth open in a little ‘o’ of surprise. He brought one hesitant hand up and touched his lips, almost as if he was checking they were still there. 

“I, uh, I got it?” Orion’s voice cracked, and he winced. 

Megatron still didn’t say anything. Coincidentally, neither did anyone else in the bar. His mouth worked, opening and closing once or twice as if searching for the right words, but nothing came out. Orion had never seen Megatron like this before, in all the time he’d known him. It didn’t feel right.

Finally, Megatron seemed to give up on speech, shutting his mouth decisively. He fixed Orion with his fiery gaze and sent his spark swooping upwards in a fluttery panic to sit at the back of his throat. There was a moment of indefinite stillness, anticipation heavy in the air. Then, Megatron surged into action, sweeping his arm across the table to clear it and scrambling across it desperately in almost the same motion in order to reach Orion and throw himself into his lap and kiss him back as quickly as he could manage. Orion heard a smash of  _ something  _ hitting the ground, and then abruptly he found he really couldn’t care less. He was pinned down against his seat by Megatron’s hot weight, being kissed furiously, his head gripped and tipped back at an angle to Megatron’s liking as Megatron tasted him as deeply as he could, their mouths working against each other in harmony, just like when they wrote together. It was blissful. He felt decadent as Megatron licked into his mouth. Megatron even  _ kissed  _ angrily, because of course he did, like he was mad he’d been made to feel something, and Orion treasured the feeling of even that, because it was part of the perfect whole that made Megatron the force of nature that he was. 

They broke apart, both breathing hard, still pressed up against each other and close enough that Orion could feel Megatron’s hot breath against his lips. He would’ve loved nothing more than to lean forward and close the gap again, but without being thoroughly distracted by Megatron’s mouth he’d remembered once again that they were in the middle of a crowded bar. 

He didn’t know who started applauding. Megatron smiled at him as the bar filled with cheering, and leaned in to kiss him softly one more time. Orion was so transfixed by the gentle expression on his face as Megatron looked at him, so unlike his usual scowl, that he reached up to cradle Megatron’s face, as if checking it was real. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long fucking time,” Megatron murmured to him with a giddy little smile. 

“Fuck,” Orion breathed. “So have I.”

**Author's Note:**

> wig???? i just love this???? 
> 
> nearly left a single 'crankshaft' in there bc i genuinely believe its a better word than bastard  
> god. cyberverse good megop good.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] You're Being Fucking Deceived](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27745882) by [Gilraina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilraina/pseuds/Gilraina)




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